Chapter 3: A Saintess, a Sword, and Several Red Flags

The palace assigned Milo a saintess at breakfast.

It happened between the poached wyvern eggs and the moment he discovered Valorian coffee had opinions.

The dining hall of the Radiant Palace stretched long enough to require its own postal route, with windows the height of cathedral doors pouring morning light over white marble, gold filigree, and a table burdened by more food than Milo had seen outside holiday buffets designed to shame entire families. Silver platters steamed. Crystal pitchers sweated. Servants drifted like extremely judgmental ghosts.

Milo sat at one end of the table in the ceremonial chair reserved for the Chosen Hero, which had a sunburst carved into its back and appeared to have been engineered specifically to prevent slouching. After last night’s negotiations with King Alaric, he had slept in a bed larger than his first apartment, under silk sheets, surrounded by tapestries depicting previous heroes dying in inspirational ways.

It had not been restful.

Every time he closed his eyes, the Divine Interface shimmered behind his eyelids.

Quest Accepted: Survive Royal Expectations
Primary Objective: Defeat the Demon Lord
Negotiated Benefits: Lodging, meals, salary, hazard pay, two rest days per seven-day cycle, equipment stipend, resurrection insurance pending legal review
Status: Begrudgingly Approved

He had woken to the sound of horns, the smell of beeswax and roses, and a maid politely asking whether “the Hero preferred his armor blessed before or after breakfast.”

Milo had asked for coffee.

The coffee arrived in a porcelain cup etched with golden saints. It was black, glossy, and steaming. It smelled faintly of cinnamon and lightning.

He took one sip.

His vision sharpened. His heartbeat developed a second verse. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled, though no one else reacted.

“Is this… safe?” Milo asked, lowering the cup.

The chamberlain, a reed-thin man named Osric who looked as though he had been born holding a clipboard, bowed from Milo’s left. “It is blessed dawnbrew, Sir Hero. A traditional restorative for champions of light.”

“It tastes like a lawsuit.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Milo was deciding whether a second sip counted as self-harm when the double doors at the far end of the hall opened.

A hush rolled through the servants.

Sunlight seemed to notice her first.

She entered in robes of white and pale gold, the fabric layered like flower petals and embroidered with thread that caught the light in tiny sparks. A veil rested over silver-blond hair braided down one shoulder. Around her neck hung the eight-rayed sigil of the Church of Luminara, polished so brightly it could have blinded a tax auditor. She walked with calm, measured grace, each step quiet as falling snow.

At her hip hung a sword.

Not a ceremonial rapier or a symbolic dagger, but a proper sword. Broad-bladed, practical, its grip worn smooth by use. The scabbard was plain leather except for one small sun charm tied near the guard.

Milo’s gaze caught on it.

That seems… off-brand.

Osric leaned in. “Her Radiance, Saintess Elowen of the Dawn Hospice, First Hand of Mercy, Vanquisher of the Withering Plague, Bearer of the Gentle Flame.”

The saintess reached Milo’s end of the table and inclined her head.

“Sir Milo Finch,” she said.

Her voice was soft, warm, and perfectly balanced. It had the same calming quality as a meditation app that had definitely killed a man.

Milo stood because everyone else seemed ready to faint if he didn’t. “Just Milo is fine.”

Her smile deepened by exactly one millimeter. “Humility. Excellent. It saves time.”

Milo blinked. “Does it?”

“Titles expand introductions by an average of nineteen seconds. Over a campaign of twelve months, assuming three formal introductions daily, that is nearly six hours squandered on vanity.”

The chamberlain’s quill made a nervous scratch against parchment.

“Oh,” Milo said. “You’ve… done the math.”

“Of course.” Elowen folded her hands before her. Her serenity did not crack, but something in her eyes gleamed with pale, terrifying satisfaction. “Waste is a form of spiritual rot.”

Milo slowly sat back down.

Osric cleared his throat. “By order of His Majesty and with the blessing of the Holy Synod, Saintess Elowen has been appointed as your first companion and spiritual advisor. She will accompany you on your sacred journey to the Demon Lord’s fortress.”

Milo looked at Elowen’s sword again. “Spiritual advisor.”

“Among other duties,” said Elowen.

“Right. And the sword is for… advising?”

“Some souls require more direct guidance.”

A servant dropped a spoon.

Elowen did not look away from Milo.

Milo took another sip of lightning coffee by accident and immediately regretted all decisions leading to that moment.

The doors opened again before he could ask whether companion assignments came with a thirty-day return policy. A squad of palace guards entered carrying racks of equipment: polished shields, bundles of spears, padded gambesons, leather boots, travel cloaks, rolled maps, and a sword resting on crimson velvet.

The sword gleamed under the morning light, long and elegant, its crossguard shaped like wings. Gems glittered in the pommel. Its blade looked sharp enough to cut a concept.

Osric puffed with pride. “The Dawncleaver, reforged from star iron and blessed in the waters of Lake Seraphine. Wielded by Sir Caelan the Bright during the Third Incursion.”

“Did he win?” Milo asked.

A pause.

“He died heroically,” Osric said.

“That keeps happening in your examples.”

Elowen’s gaze flickered with approval. “Pattern recognition. Good.”

The guards brought the sword forward. Milo stood again, because apparently this kingdom’s entire culture involved forcing him upright at unpredictable intervals. The weapon looked heavier up close. It radiated a faint hum, like a refrigerator full of judgment.

“Please extend your hand, Sir Hero,” Osric said.

“Is this going to brand me?”

“Only if unworthy.”

“Great.”

Milo extended one finger and touched the hilt.

The Divine Interface bloomed in his vision with a chime so cheerful it felt insulting.

New Item Detected: Dawncleaver, Heroic Sword of Radiant Judgment
Rarity: Legendary
Requirements: Chosen Hero, Strength 18, Swordsmanship 12, Courage 10
Your Current Stats:
Strength: 4
Swordsmanship: 0
Courage: Contextual
Compatibility: 13%

The sword flashed.

Milo yelped and jerked his hand back as a static shock snapped his fingertip.

Several servants gasped.

Osric went pale. “The Dawncleaver rejects—”

“It’s fine,” Milo said quickly, sucking his finger. “We’re taking it slow.”

Elowen stepped closer. “May I?”

“Absolutely.”

She placed her hand on the hilt.

The sword stopped humming.

The light along the blade softened like a cat being scratched behind the ears.

Osric’s mouth opened.

Elowen drew the Dawncleaver from its velvet cradle with effortless grace, tested its balance, then slid it back into the scabbard at her hip opposite her plain sword.

“This will do,” she said.

Milo pointed at her. “You can use the hero sword?”

“Apparently.”

“Is that allowed?”

Osric made a strangled noise that suggested several committees collapsing in his soul.

Elowen smiled her tranquil, merciless smile. “Allowed is often a slower cousin of effective.”

Milo stared at her.

Red flag, he thought. Crimson. Waving. Possibly on fire.

The Divine Interface dinged.

Party Member Candidate Detected: Elowen
Class: Saintess / Field Surgeon / ???
Notable Traits: Efficient, Devout, Organized, Low Tolerance for Redundancy
Risk Assessment: High Utility / Moderate Personal Danger / Severe Meeting Discipline
Invite to Party? YES / NO

Milo glanced around. No one else seemed to see the glowing prompt hovering in front of Elowen’s serene face.

He focused on NO.

The button shimmered.

Cannot Decline Mandatory Companion Assignment.

“Of course,” Milo muttered.

Elowen tilted her head. “Pardon?”

“Nothing. Welcome aboard.”

Elowen has joined your party.
Party Synergy Unlocked: Delegated Heroism I
Effect: Party members may complete Hero-designated objectives on behalf of the Hero.
Warning: Accountability remains spiritually ambiguous.

Milo’s fork slipped from his fingers.

Elowen caught it before it hit the table.

The movement was casual. Almost lazy. Her hand blurred, silverware stopped, and she placed the fork neatly beside his plate with the tines aligned to the napkin seam.

“Careful,” she said.

Milo looked at the fork, then at her.

Several red flags.

Training began an hour later in the palace yard.

The yard lay behind the western wing, a square of packed sand enclosed by rose-covered walls and marble colonnades. Weapon racks lined one side. Practice dummies stood in rows, some made of straw, others of wood, and one ominously human-shaped construct of black iron that radiated expensive insurance premiums. A fountain burbled nearby, its statue depicting a muscular angel stomping on what appeared to be a tax form.

Knights gathered along the edges, pretending not to stare. Squires whispered behind shields. A few nobles occupied shaded benches, eager to witness the Chosen Hero display divine martial prowess before lunch.

Milo emerged in borrowed training gear that smelled faintly of cedar and someone else’s confidence. The padded jacket was too stiff. The boots pinched. A wooden practice sword hung from his hand with all the menace of a cafeteria tray.

Elowen waited in the center of the yard wearing the same robes, though she had tied the sleeves back with white cord. Her veil was gone. Morning light caught the pale braid over her shoulder. At her feet lay three neat stacks: wooden swords, blunted steel blades, and bandages.

The bandages worried Milo most.

“Before we begin,” he said, “I’d like to establish training goals.”

“Excellent,” Elowen said.

“Primarily survival.”

“Reasonable.”

“Secondarily, avoiding humiliation in front of all those people.”

Elowen looked toward the onlookers. The knights abruptly found fascinating details in the clouds.

“Witnesses improve accountability,” she said.

“That’s not as comforting as you think.”

She drew a wooden practice sword and tossed it to him.

Milo fumbled it, juggled it against his chest, and caught it by the blade.

A squire snorted.

Elowen turned her head slightly.

The squire went rigid.

“Good,” she said to Milo. “We have established baseline.”

“Baseline of what?”

“Catastrophe.”

Milo adjusted his grip. “You know, where I come from, training usually starts with stretching.”

“We will stretch your limits.”

“That is not the same thing.”

Elowen stepped into stance. It was a small shift, almost delicate, but the air changed. Her feet aligned. Her shoulders relaxed. The wooden sword angled downward.

She looked peaceful.

That made it worse.

“Strike me,” she said.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Because every instinct I have says that’s how I lose teeth.”

Her smile warmed. “Your instincts are developing.”

“Can we maybe start with theory? Vocabulary? What’s a parry? Why are there so many buckles on armor? Multiple choice?”

“The body learns faster than the mind when properly motivated.”

“That sounds like something a villain says before releasing hounds.”

She moved.

Milo saw a flicker of white and gold, then his wooden sword was no longer in his hand. It spun through the air, clattered against a weapon rack, and knocked down two spears.

His palm stung.

The watching knights went very quiet.

Elowen had not seemed to attack. She had merely arrived at a conclusion.

“Lesson one,” she said. “Grip.”

“I was gripping.”

“No. You were requesting the sword remain.”

Milo flexed his fingers. “My request was denied.”

She retrieved the practice sword and handed it back.

“Again.”

The next attempt lasted longer. Milo raised the sword, tried to mimic a stance he vaguely remembered from movies, and stepped forward.

Elowen tapped his wrist.

The sword flew into the fountain.

Water splashed over the angel’s marble calves.

“Grip,” she repeated.

“I feel like maybe we’re skipping the part where you teach me how.”

“Pain is a concise instructor.”

“Pain is an HR violation.”

Her brows drew together. “What is HR?”

“A church for cowards with paperwork.”

Elowen considered this. “I may enjoy it.”

They continued.

By the fourth disarm, Milo’s palms burned. By the seventh, sweat crawled down his neck under the padded collar. By the tenth, the nobles had stopped pretending this was a demonstration of heroic destiny and were openly watching as if attending a public execution with refreshments.

Elowen never raised her voice. She corrected his stance with two fingers. She moved his elbow an inch, nudged his foot a fraction, and every adjustment made the posture feel both more stable and more humiliatingly obvious.

“Shoulder loose,” she said.

“It is loose.”

She tapped him between the shoulder blades.

His arm dropped like a puppet with cut strings.

“Now it is loose.”

“I don’t like how much you know about joints.”

“I ran a plague hospice for six years.”

“That explains healing.”

“And triage.”

“That does not reassure me.”

She handed him the sword again.

Milo drew a breath, planted his feet, and tried to empty his mind. Unfortunately, his mind was mostly filled with phrases like imminent wrist trauma and why didn’t I ask for dental coverage.

The Divine Interface hovered at the edge of his vision, annoyingly calm.

Training Session Active: Basic Swordsmanship
Current Progress: 0.7%
Morale: Unstable
Suggestion: Delegate?

Milo froze.

Elowen’s sword stopped an inch from his knuckles.

“You saw something,” she said.

“What? No.”

“Your eyes focused on empty air.”

“Maybe I enjoy air.”

“Sir Milo.”

“Just Milo.”

“Milo,” she said, and somehow dropping the title made it more dangerous, “if the divine gift granted to you produces guidance, withholding it will decrease our efficiency.”

Milo lowered the sword slightly. “Does everything come back to efficiency with you?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Mercy, cleanliness, and well-labeled storage also matter.”

He sighed.

The Interface pulsed.

Suggestion: Assign Training Objective to Party Member
Potential Reward: Experience Allocation Enabled

Milo stared at the message.

Experience allocation.

That sounded suspiciously game-like. Also suspiciously useful. Also suspiciously like the kind of thing that would get him burned as a heretic by the wrong committee if he said it too loudly.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Hypothetically, if my divine gift lets me assign objectives…”

Elowen’s eyes brightened.

Not metaphorically. Brightened. A soft gold shimmer surfaced in her irises.

“Go on.”

“And hypothetically, people get stronger when they complete them…”

A stillness fell over her.

The fountain burbled.

Somewhere, a pigeon made the mistake of landing on the wall, took one look at Elowen’s expression, and left.

“Define stronger,” she said.

Milo swallowed. “Experience points.”

Elowen closed her eyes.

For one alarming moment, Milo thought she was praying.

Then she whispered, “Quantified growth.”

He took half a step back.

“Are you okay?”

Her eyes opened. The serene smile returned, but now it had edges.

“Milo,” she said softly, “we must test this immediately.”

“I feared you’d say that.”

“Assign me something.”

“Like what?”

“A task.”

“Yes, I gathered that. But what kind of task?”

“One with measurable completion criteria.”

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I am enjoying it an appropriate amount.”

The Interface shifted, opening a translucent panel in front of him.

Divine Interface: Quest Builder
Assign To: [Select Party Member]
Objective: [Enter Task]
Difficulty: [Auto-Calculate]
Reward: [Auto-Calculate]
Penalty: [Optional]

Milo focused on Elowen’s name. It appeared in the assignment field, accompanied by a tiny icon of a halo crossed with a scalpel.

“That icon is rude,” he muttered.

“What icon?”

“Nothing.”

He considered possible objectives. Something safe. Something simple. Something that would not result in a saintess discovering experience farming and dismantling the kingdom’s educational system by dinner.

“Quest,” he said awkwardly. “Uh. Pick up my sword from the fountain.”

The Interface chimed.

Quest Created: Retrieve the Hero’s Dropped Training Sword
Assigned To: Elowen
Objective: Recover wooden practice sword from fountain and return it to Milo
Difficulty: Trivial
Reward: 1 EXP
Accept?

A golden slip of light appeared before Elowen.

She stared at it like a starving scholar encountering a free library.

“I can see it,” she breathed.

Several knights craned their necks.

“You can?” Milo asked.

“It asks whether I accept.”

“Do you?”

She lifted one finger and tapped the air.

Quest Accepted.

Elowen turned, walked to the fountain, reached into the water, withdrew the soaked practice sword, returned, and placed it in Milo’s hands.

Quest Complete!
Elowen gained 1 EXP.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then a tiny sparkle drifted down over Elowen’s head.

She inhaled.

“Oh,” she said.

Milo stiffened. “What oh?”

“There was a sensation.”

“What kind of sensation?”

“Minor spiritual affirmation accompanied by measurable vitality increase.”

“From picking up a stick?”

“Yes.”

Milo looked at the Interface.

The Interface pulsed innocently.

Elowen’s hand slowly closed around the hilt of her wooden sword.